


Rescue, Recovery

by starlightwalking



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Disabled Character, Gen, Irony, Loss of Limbs, Physical Disability, Post-Nirnaeth Arnoediad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24864313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: Maedhros visits Nargothrond for the sake of another one-handed survivor of Angband, but his motivations are not entirely altruistic.
Relationships: Finduilas Faelivrin & Maedhros | Maitimo, Finduilas Faelivrin/Gwindor, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Gwindor & Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 16
Kudos: 48
Collections: Dialogue Prompts





	Rescue, Recovery

**Author's Note:**

> A ficlet from a tumblr prompt: the "no hand buddies" Maedhros & Gwindor + "I can explain."  
> For an anon!
> 
> At first I was like "How can I do this justice when it's been [done so well before](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/190641004922/mc-dude-so-you-worked-in-the-mines-you-said)?" But then I got rolling and remembered just how much I love angst...
> 
> I considered including this in my [Russingon drabble collection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24863605), but decided it worked better on its own.

“I can explain,” Maedhros said, raising his hands—well, his _hand_ —into the air. “But please, lay down your weapons. I come in peace.”

“The sons of Fëanor are not welcome in Nargothrond,” growled the guard. “We cast your brothers out for good reason!”

“I was invited.” Maedhros peered over their heads, not a particularly difficult feat considering his height, looking for the one who had called him hither. “I hear that one of your lords was recently returned from Angband.”

“And so you invited yourself?” the second guard demanded.

“Nay, I was sent for. Your princess requested my advice.”

The guards exchanged a disbelieving look. “Princess Finduilas?” the first said. “What does _she_ want with a Kinslayer like you?”

Annoyance flashed across Maedhros’ face. He was not bothered by the insult of Kinslayer—there was not much that bothered him, these days, not truly—but his patience with the guards was wearing thin. “Will one of you send word for her?” he asked, trying not to show his irritation.

“My lord!” came a high voice, and a slight blonde figure appeared from the darkness, rushing toward him. “My lord, you came!”

“You asked for him?” the second guard said, lowering his sword. The first still glowered at him.

“Yes, yes,” the princess—for it could only be she—said hurriedly. “Come with me, Lord Maedhros. Gwindor rests for long hours, but he is awake now; I would not wish you to linger here long, I know you have business elsewhere.”

Maedhros walked past the guards at last, following Finduilas into Nargothrond. It had been a long time since he last visited; Finrod yet reigned, and Curufin and Celegorm had just barely begun to settle in. He had not met the princess, then, for she too was adjusting to a new life in these caverns, her previous home of Minas Tirith having fallen in the same battle where Maedhros’ brothers had lost Aglon.

“It is less that I have business elsewhere, and more that I am not welcome here,” Maedhros rumbled. “Aside from you, Princess, none would welcome a son of Fëanor, not after what my brothers have done.”

“You are not your brothers,” Finduilas said firmly. She glanced up at him with hard eyes. “If I thought you were I would not have called you. Finrod spoke kindly of you, and so did Fingon. I trust you enough to know that you can be of assistance.”

Maedhros did not flinch when she said Fingon’s name. It had been some years since the Nírnaeth, and while he still felt his grief in every moment, he kept it hidden deep within his broken heart.

He had not come here just because the princess’s betrothed had lost a hand, though of course his compassion ran deep for the lord. No, he…there was something he had to know, from Gwindor’s mouth.

Finduilas kept up a stream of information, telling Maedhros what she had already written in her letter: that Gwindor had been captured, not killed, in the Nírnaeth; that he had lost a hand in his escape; that he had come hither with a strange man who called himself Agarwaen, and bore tidings of the death of Beleg Cúthalion. At that Maedhros bowed his head, for Beleg had long been a friend of the Noldor, and his loss was great indeed.

The princess fell quiet when they reached Gwindor’s chambers. “I will remain outside,” she said quietly. “He…does not like having many visitors, and…though I wish it were not so, I believe he is ashamed before me.” She looked up at him, hope bright in her eyes. “Will you…will you help him return to his strength? He was so joyful, once. I know he may never be the same, but…I wish I could bring him some of that joy, again.”

Maedhros nodded. “I will do what I can,” he said. “I know that… It was hard for me. But it was love that saved me, and not only from the cliffs of Thangorodrim. It—it is love that brings me here.”

“As your distant kinswoman I cannot thank you enough,” Finduilas said, reaching out to grasp his hand. “Truly, I am in your debt.”

“Speak not of debts,” Maedhros warned. “My love is not for you, Princess, though I bear you no hatred. It…there was another who would have wished me to do this. For him I will help another as he once helped me.”

He turned before he could see her confusion or her sorrow, whichever she felt, and entered the room.

Gwindor son of Guilin lay abed, staring listlessly into a cup of tea. He did not look up as Maedhros entered. All at once Maedhros remembered why he suffered so—it was _his_ fault, just like Fingon’s death, that the Fifth Battle had been fought, had been lost…it was his fault that Gwindor had endured such hardships. But he steeled himself and knelt beside Gwindor’s bed. Fingon would not want him to dwell on guilt, especially not when there was work to be done.

“My lord,” he said. “Did the princess tell you why I came?”

Gwindor looked up. His eyes were sunken, hollow. “Yes,” he rasped. His voice sounded worse even than Maedhros’ had after his rescue. “I told her I did not want to see you. But she didn’t listen.” At that a bitter smile flickered briefly upon his lips. “She is determined.”

“Yes.” Maedhros suddenly did not know what to say.

“I am surprised that you came,” Gwindor said. “I did not know the lord of Himring had such leisure to visit the infirmed lordling of another kingdom.”

“Himring fell,” he said shortly. “I dwell now in Amon Ereb with my brother. Caranthir,” he added, not wanting to imply he favored Celegorm and Curufin, though they lived there also.

“Further south, but no further west,” Gwindor said. “You still traveled far on my account.”

“Not yours only.” Maedhros would not lie about his motivations, not to one who had been through as much as Gwindor. “I…have some questions about your time in Angband. Though I do wish to impart what little wisdom I may have as a fellow escapee.”

“Too bad I lost the other hand,” Gwindor said drily, lifting the stump of his left arm. “To think, we could have matched.”

Maedhros let out a short bark of laughter. Gwindor looked mildly surprised.

“If there is any who will appreciate such morbid humor, it is I,” he assured Gwindor.

“Speak your questions, then,” Gwindor said, taking a sip of his tea for the first time. “I will answer, or not. And then perhaps you may humor me with advice on how to navigate the world one-handed.”

Maedhros drew a breath. “I know what foolish hope I may have is in vain,” he said, “and yet—I must ask.”

“I was thought dead and yet returned, and so you wish to know if Fingon were imprisoned and not slain.” Gwindor did not seem surprised at the question.

Maedhros bowed his head. “Yes. He rescued me when I was utterly lost, and I—if he were there, in that hell, and I did not attempt the same…”

“He is dead.” Gwindor sighed, more sympathetic than he had any reason to be on Maedhros’ behalf. “And that is my fault, I suppose, for rushing into battle so early.”

“It is mine, for arriving so late,” Maedhros said flatly. “I…I knew he was dead. I could—I felt it. We had…a bond, and it broke. But…”

“I understand.” Gwindor stared down into his cup. “I gave up my brother for dead, and then—he was not, until it was far, far too late. But I saw the body of the king…at least, enough of it to know he truly has gone to Mandos. It was brief; I worked in the mines, not…given special treatment, as it were. I was, again, but a lordling, no High King.”

“Was—” the words choked in his throat, but he forced them out— “Did he die in captivity?”

“I do not believe so. What they did to his corpse looked like it happened after Gothmog was through with him on the battlefield.”

“Again I lose a loved one to that Balrog,” Maedhros said bitterly. “And again his body is lost also. First my father, then my beloved…”

Gwindor stilled. “I knew you were close,” he said.

Maedhros started, but Gwindor did not mock him. “Yes. We were…all but wed.” By some measures, they were more than wed.

“All but wed.” He grimaced. “Aye, that sums it up.”

“The princess?” Maedhros asked. Ah, of course. Gwindor, too, was in love with the child of a king.

“But it was not she who rescued me,” Gwindor mumbled. “Of course not, she is no warrior, no hero…and that did no one any good, in the end.”

“She would rescue you now,” Maedhros said, finally feeling as if he had something meaningful to say to this broken warrior. “She summoned me for that purpose. She wants to see you smile again.”

“How can I, when I have lost everything but her?” Gwindor demanded. “When she deserves so much more than me, than this shell of a person I have become—”

“They will love you anyway, these good-hearted souls,” Maedhros interrupted. “You will not feel like you deserve it. You will wish you had died amidst your torment, rather than see their pity and grief at what you are now. You will hate them, and yourself, and your captors, and you will push everyone away—but he, _she_ will stay by you anyway, her heart true, so much better than you, and love you regardless.” He was crying now, and did not bother to hide it. “If you are lucky you will give up your anguish, let them care for you. Let yourself feel joy, however brief, and wonder at how happy it makes _them_. If you are unlucky…well.” He gestured to himself. “I find it hard to believe you can be unluckier even than I.”

Gwindor closed his eyes. “You want me to burden her with my horrors.”

“ _She_ wants that,” Maedhros corrected. “ _I_ do not care what happens to you. But if you care for her…she will not be happy until she is loved the way she deserves, Gwindor. And if she has given her heart to you, then for her sake you must learn to live again.”

Gwindor was silent for a long time. Then: “Alright,” he whispered. “Alright. I will try. For my Faelivrin.” He took a shaky breath and met Maedhros’ eyes with something akin to determination flaring to life within them. “Can you tell me how I may once again wield a sword?”

**Author's Note:**

> Rebloggable on tumblr [here](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/621069775602434048/16-with-the-no-hand-buddies-aka-maedhros-and).
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please comment if you enjoyed!  
> You can find me on tumblr [@arofili](http://arofili.tumblr.com/).


End file.
